Don’t Look for Love
This is a premium subscriber article. If you are already a premium subscriber and are not seeing all of the article, please login. If you are not a premium subscriber, please subscribe for access to all of our content.

            While the setup of Pillion suggests a standard “opposites attract” story, juxtaposition is central to the film’s construction, charting Colin’s transition from meek suburbanite to modern queer man. As such, many of Pillion’s most compelling dualisms emerge from Lighton’s visuals. Colin’s suburban world is depicted as cramped, overflowing, and as Lighton described it in an interview, “past its sell-by date.” The support of his family is comforting, but the atmosphere is stifling, a feeling akin to being trapped in an overcrowded room.

            The first hint that Colin may want something more comes when he unknowingly watches Ray overtake his family’s car on a motorcycle, symbolic of Colin’s burgeoning aspirations of freedom. Pillion presents Ray’s world as electrified and open, set convincingly to the thrum of engines and the exhalations of leather being unzipped by steady hands. Ray is defined by an overarching minimalism, one that Lighton visually associates with empty highways, open fields, and the raw possibilities of nature. The motorcycle serves as both a gateway to these frontiers and a site of intimacy between Colin and Ray. Although Colin remains a passenger (now the titular pillion), the cramped interior of his family car has been replaced by rushing air and a thrilling vulnerability.

            The establishment of Pillion’s contrasting worlds—and their explosive convergence—is brought to life by Melling and Skarsgård’s performances. The tension between the two is always palpable, though few words pass between them, as so much is communicated by touch, eye contact, and the gasps and groans that punctuate Pillion’s many sex scenes. The lead actors have a remarkable ability to balance erotic intensity with physical comedy, a feat that adds to the depth and believability of their relationship. Pillion’s masterful coupling of ecstasy and slapstick also speaks to the distinctly queer language of pleasure, one that evades the constraints of romance and the possibility of procreation. Instead, pleasure is both a communal project and an internal journey, one that Lighton depicts as simultaneously raw and tender.

            Lighton is keen to dispel the tropes that typically define queer narratives and isn’t interested in telling a straightforward story of acceptance or suffering. Instead, he delves into the difficulties queer people face in navigating the cultural norms that now surround queer identity, especially when “acceptable” queer behavior seems to preclude kink and the articulation of complex desires.

            Colin’s parents support their gay son, but his arrangement with Ray makes them deeply uncomfortable. The lack of any legible romance or love causes them to view the relationship as abusive, which leads to a standoff between Ray and Colin’s mother. Dying of cancer, his mother is deeply invested in helping her son to find a partner. Ray rejects her efforts, calling her bigoted for trying to dictate what a healthy relationship should look like. However, even in Ray’s seemingly liberated world, Colin finds himself similarly trapped, unable to articulate his need for intimacy or alter the specifics of their relationship. The film frames Ray not as an antidote to Colin’s unhappiness but as a complex person similarly ruled by his emotional limitations.

            Pillion doesn’t beg for understanding from its characters or audience. It asks for acceptance but acknowledges that everyone must exist independently from those around them. Lighton complicates this message by grounding it in the importance of community. No one can hope for universal approval, but neither can they exist without attaching themselves to networks of care. Ray’s biker gang is one such network, featuring an array of queer masculinities and bodies rarely shown on screen, let alone presented as capable of expressing or eliciting desire. The film largely centers on Ray and Colin’s conventional bodies, but those around them aren’t devalued due to the absence of muscle or a presence of fat. The gang’s diversity speaks to a world of queer desire far beyond what traditional romcoms—or even many mainstream queer films—typically depict.

            One could argue that Pillion doesn’t go far enough in exploring the abjection and transgression of BDSM, but the film is successful in what it set out to do: transgress the romcom genre and explore the difficulties of nurturing queer autonomy. The tropes are evident but unobtrusive, and the use of a conventional story structure highlights the complexities of Colin’s journey as he straddles the line between his dual worlds.